Title: Unworthy

Author: Rissa85-Stargazing85

Rating: PG13 to R

Genre: Drama/Angst/Romance

Part: Part Nine (Effects of Contrition)

Disclaimer: A standing ovation for this part, please, you won't see another disclaimer until the epilogue. I'm sick of writing the same thing for each part. )

Author's Note: For some reason, I really liked the last chapter that I wrote even though it doesn't seem as if it was in-depth as the first eight chapters, even though it was easier to understand and read. Sigh

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The rush of the chill wind, icy even to him with thick and matted fur, the soles of his hind legs sloshed through the myriad of puddles about the stone floor. Diffidently, he stood from her, who was only about some twelve or so paces from him. The blood in his veins felt uncomfortably warm and his pulse, uncomfortably quick. His mouth felt too dry and something ominous stirred in the pit of his stomach, a sick feeling that reminded him faintly of the same feeling he harbored when he was younger and had done something he knew would be criticized by his mother.

Shaking his head, he pulled himself from an oncoming reverie and trudged to her, not noticing the shaking of his hands, "Belle!" he yelled worriedly, wondering how long he had left her to the elements. No response, not even a lift of a hand or the lift of her head, covered with slight bits of ice that clung to dark and wet hair. The slight and intermittent heave of her chest was the only sign of life she gave. "Belle! Belle!" he roared, angrily though at himself or her, he could not determine.

Kneeling beside her, frantically he touched her elbow. Cold. Cold as ice, cold as the icy finger of death. It did not even feel as if it were made of soft and warm skin, but felt more like the roughness of his paws and the chilliness of frozen glass. A violent shiver that shook her whole body began and ended just as rapidly as it surfaced. He attempted to lift her up, but she slumped against him, just as a pillow or a doll would. "Belle!" he bellowed uneasily, if she died he would never forgive himself.

"Belle! Are you okay? Belle!" he howled worriedly, noting the frigidity and iciness of wet satin against the warmness of his chest. She was drenched, with small bits of ice clinging to the bit of lace in her gown, clinging to her eyebrows and lashes. Her eyes opened half-way, so that she appeared on the verge of falling asleep, blinking slowly, her breathing shallow.

He could only remember one time when he was a child, having no more than about nine or ten years at the most, of the brutality and danger of the cold. Some royal something-or-other of his mother's, one of her only confidants, had been stranded in the snowy forest when her carriage had been attacked by ravenous wolves. Able to leave on horseback, she had gotten lost in the forest, and when the horse threw her off its back, she wandered around before collapsing shortly before palace officials found her and what was left of her party. Mother never let him see what happened to her, but when she first came in the palace he thought it strange that her lips and skin were tinged blue in some place and she spoke as incoherently as Father when he was drunk. The only thing he could hear his mother commanding, shrieking was, "Don't let her fall asleep! Keep her awake, do what you may, but keep her awake!"

Her lids began to close and he shook her violently, "Stay awake! Don't close your eyes, Belle!" Another shiver, this time, it was not as violent and did not seem to shake her from head to foot. "Try to stand." He pleaded futilely, as he attempted to lift her into a standing position, her legs wobbled as gracelessly as a newborn colt when first prancing, as clumsily as a toddler taking its first steps. Then, as if made of gelatin, her legs gave way from under her and she stumbled before falling; fortunately, he caught her and whisked her into his arms, placing one massive arm behind her knees and the other supporting her back.

"Belle! Don't close your eyes!" he pleaded again, pathetically.

Her blue-tinged lips parted, as he carried her from the dungeon, "Let sleep,…Papa…. I'm so… berry…" she mumbled incoherently, her lids beginning to close. Why, she was delirious! He damned himself to Hell for placing her in that dungeon, if only he could only curb his temper. "My mother…she….I never…knew her name…"

And in that one moment, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed against him limply, her lids closing. "No!" he roared into her ear, "Belle! Belle, you must listen to me, you can't fall asleep. You'll die! Only keep talking to me, what about your mother? Belle!" Again he beseeched frenziedly. The richness and volume of his voice gave her a start, and her lids did not open but her mouth did and she began, "She…'as prery. Wake me….laler." Her speech was becoming more and more muddled and less and less incoherent.

He strained to hear her faint whispers and nodded, "Pretty, yes. And what else about her?" Silence reigned for a while before he heard her drowsy reply, "Blown eyes…Hated 'er…I didn't wan' look like 'er…" she paused before exhaling slowly, "Lemme…sleep." She pleaded unfocusedly and her head rolled back for a few seconds before he shook her violently. "And what else?"

Her half-closed eyes looked up at the ceiling and she shivered, "Papa,…wha' 'ill he eat?" she demanded, her voice missing any elements of force. The Beast nodded, "He'll be eating the best of the land, why I'll send my servants to cook him a feast. Anything he likes."

"Give 'im my share of dinner. 'Member the mutton, Papa…never 'ad any since…" she became quiet and he shook her again, this time she didn't react. Obviously, he knew there had been no mutton at dinner and that her mind was all but coherent, but he continued shaking her. Anything to get her to speak, anything to hear her lovely voice, may it be thick and slurred.

"Belle!" he roared, but to no avail. She was slipping into unconsciousness. With a last resort thought, and wincing, he took the talons he had supporting her back and pressed them into the fabric, feeling them cut through the fabric and pierce her flesh. Immediately, she shrieked, and writhed against him weakly, too weak to pull away from him and mumbled weakly, "Papa…"

"It's…summer…it's swarm here." She muttered, the ice finally beginning to melt in her hair and the melting ice in her lashes and eyebrows traveled down her face so that it appeared as if she were sweating profusely. He nodded, "Much warmer here. You never did finish telling me about your mother."

"Shelived in Paris." Her words ran together, all garbled. "Span'ish" she muttered, nodding. Then she choked, "My Pa…?"

"Yes, he is fine. He wants you to keep talking so you can get better." He urged her, trying to shake her from exhaustion.

At last, after more urgings and more faint mumblings, he arrived at the room, second floor on the South Wing, that caused him such anxiety and comfort simultaneously. He stepped in with her and placed her on the silky satin before leaning his massive head out of the door and roaring, "Get me plenty of hot water, hot towels, and warm clothing for her! Hurry!" The echo vibrated and his voice shook the chandeliers overhead, then rushed over to her.

She needed to get out of the wet clothing. But he would have to do it; if he left her to herself, she would probably fall asleep and the way she was mumbling incoherently and not shivering at all, her skin stiff and her lips still blue-tinged, that would probably be fatal. Gritting his teeth, he let her slip into semi-consciousness before giving another thought to stripping her. His blood grew hot and then cold as anticipation began to build, how awful it was to have such thoughts about her at this time!

Attempting to detach himself, he waited until her breathing became shallower before taking the ribbons which held up the front of her bodice and slowly untied them, unheeding his trembling paws. Then he picked up speed, unfastening the clasps of the rest of her gown, his hands shaking and his breath quickening, attempting to push away thoughts of other times. Other times when he had been unfastening the gowns of maidens.

Loosening her clothing now, he noticed the complimenting beige-undertones and the smoothness of her skin, albeit it was a slight waxy and pale now, and then too, the curves of her body. He pulled the clothes from her body, his eyes glued to her, his mind conjuring indecent pictures involving her, his hands still quaking intensely. He pulled the gown from her, holding it up and tossing it about the floor; the servants would get it. She lay, clad in a corset and a petticoat. They were wet, also, but he knew the constraints of his self-control; if he removed them, all would be irreplaceably lost.

"Belle?" he tapped her, she did not respond. Perhaps he should not have let her fall asleep so, "Belle!" he spoke louder, shaking her. For a full minute she did not reply, until her eyes opened, again half-way, and she gazed at him, through him, as if he did not exist, her pupils dilated. "Papa…?" an intense and violent shiver shook her to the core, but with his hands shaking as well, he was not apt to notice this. "I'm needsleep." She garbled softly.

The Beast shook his head, fiercely, "Not now. To sleep is to die!"

"Master?" a feminine voice outside the door questioned, "The towels and the hot water are outside the door, if you please." He could not make it to the door fast enough if he traveled the speed of light, with breathless swiftness and flung open the door so that flung against the wall adjacent to it with a loud bang, no doubt causing the objects below him to shudder.

An ivory pot, shiny and spotless, with a golden handle and a top and bottom that were lavender and embellished with baby blue stood near the golden candleholder, Lumiere. Both had eyes that carried a hint of disapproval and anxiety, both were waiting to be of service to the Mademoiselle in the room, semi-unconscious and clad only in a corset and chemise. Wordlessly, he did not even glimpse at them, but his hands went to the warm towels and the pitcher, scooping them all in his arms without so much as a fumble or a hint of awkwardness.

With breakneck speed, he spun around, his back to them; but, he paused and looked over his shoulder. "Well? What're you staring at?" he growled petulantly. The pot and the candleholder, Mrs. Potts and Lumiere, backed away but not before Lumiere opened his mouth then closed it as if to chastise himself from attempting to speak in the first place.

"Master, will you need anything else?" Mrs. Potts inquired worriedly, her maternal instincts surfacing and reminded the Beast of his younger days when she commanded all the servants of the North and the East Wing. Not always a favorite of his, he glanced at her, suddenly remembering all the gentle yet effective and plentiful admonitions she made to him during his youth. Comfort. That is what he needed right now; what he craved, perhaps she could help him.

And Lumiere, one of the servants he trusted the most, his childhood friend though lesser to him in status and therefore inherently inferior. He had always had the personality to lift spirits and lighten the mood, no matter how heavy the atmosphere was. Perhaps…

"What should I do about her?" he muttered, almost pleading to both of them, striving for any type of advice any type of solace, some sort of confirmation that he wasn't as wicked and heartless and merciless as he felt and believed himself to be so. Silence reigned for a moment or so.

"Is she very bad off?" Lumiere questioned at the same time that Mrs. Potts inquired, "Is she still awake?"

He heard them both as if they had spoken at different times and as if their voices were magnified a thousand times, and answered them separately. "She was nearly unconscious when I reached her. I…I let her fall asleep while I dressed her." He admitted, not telling them the full reason why he let her fall asleep. If he hadn't, he was doubtful if he would have been able to touch her with her eyes focused on him.

"You let her what?" Lumiere, prone to emotion, questioned incredulously. "Wake her, Master you must!"

Mrs. Potts was more slow and methodical when she replied, "I remember, when Lady Montague's imperial consultant was captured from the snow. You must keep her awake at all costs, and keep her warm." He nodded to her, understanding and though it had been years since they heard it, he expressed his profound gratitude before pulling the door behind him with his free hand.

If shame was referred ever to an all consuming fire; then, he would most definitely be burnt to vestiges. Sure that he would leave as soon as she regained consciousness, he left a lone candle near he bedside, barely enough to light the area around her, much less the whole expanse of the room.

After placing warm towels about her and waking her roughly by shaking her violently until she regained consciousness, he prodded her awake and asked her questions, any question that would cause her to answer, sometimes asking the same questions twice. They were mostly simple questions: What were her favorite flowers? What season did she like best? She answered some of them wrong, answering months when she should answer days and confusing seasons with flowers but she was awake- that was what mattered.

When he ran out of questions to ask her, he began asking her to repeat words and names that he spoke to her. Detached, his mind wandered to the faint smell of the room-then to the softness of the chair he pulled from the small oak table near the window. Odd that he should feel shame so much later in life; he hadn't felt it in so many years that it felt strange that even recognized what it was though he confused it interchangeably with guilt. But somehow, it made him human, made him feel finally like a man, a feeling he had unquestionably missed during the past near ten years or so during the curse.

If only she would return to herself, so that he would not have to keep his eyes glued to the window and not have to torture himself with glimpses of her flesh, or have to torture himself with remaining in this room. All of a sudden, it seemed unbearably small and suffocating. If push came to shove, he would have to take her from the room and place her somewhere in the West Wing. Anywhere but in this god-forsaken room, why did he always have to experience guilt in this damned room? Almost as if the spirit of his father was mocking him in the South Wing and the spirit of his mother was mocking him in this room. The spirits of both were mocking him.

He gripped the armrest, glancing at the painting of the woman on the balcony, obviously painted by his mother and as his eyes adjusted in the dark, he squinted to make out the woman, a dark form in a still darker room. The moon in the picture, a pale circle as the lone object in the night sky, seemed to shimmer in the dim candlelight which was peculiar because he could barely make out the silver frame. And if he wasn't mistaken, didn't the lady on the balcony just turn a fraction of an angle in his direction?

Rubbing his eyes and shaking his head vehemently, he tore his eyes from the picture to the maiden slurring whatever he compelled her to say. If only she would recover…